


Complementary Colors

by welcome2atlantis



Series: Thematically Appropriate Love [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Stand Alone, short fic, standard pinning fic, this is super mushy im embarrassed, this time i abuse art metaphors, you don't need the first part to understand anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcome2atlantis/pseuds/welcome2atlantis
Summary: Kyoutani belatedly realizes he's fallen for his stupid, stubborn, annoying, amazing setter. Power of hidesight- 20/20. Which leaves him working to put his new understanding in perspective. It goes about as well as expected.





	Complementary Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look, actual romance! Where'd that come from??? A v-day present to all the Kyouhaba fans out there I suppose.  
> Companion fic to Pitch Perfect- thus the unnecessary, purple posey art similes.

He’s pretty sure falling in love is supposed to be some wonderful, monumental thing. He’d anticipated some big dramatic realization, maybe after beating Karasuno or, even better, winning their way to nationals. He’d sketched an outline of expectations, possible paths to trace and fill in– his heart to race or skip a beat, to feel his breath being knocked out of his lungs, for the world to become brighter, it’s colors more vivid and real. Maybe time would pause for a illusory moment, where everything between them suddenly crystallizes and in that blank space they both just  _ know _ . 

Maybe he’s watched too many Disney movies with his little sister. Maybe he’s heard Oikawa wax poetics about his fans and their steadfast adoration too often. Maybe that’s how other people fall in love; sudden and passionate with their new understanding painting the world around them in explosive bursts of color.

That’s not what happens to him. His style of love is understated. His love is watercolor seeping into paper. It’s the slow inexorable spread, unpredictable, the edges undefined, one bleeding into another. Blurry, ill defined blots made up of color and memory and feeling–  _ Their defeat at spring high in their second year. The first time he’d made Yahaba laugh. The time Yahaba had fallen asleep on his shoulder on the way back from training camp, sharing Yahaba’s earbuds and music. Every time Yahaba turns down a confession, waves his teammates outrage away with some off-handed comment about his lack of interest in girls. The way Yahaba coos the right kind of nonsense to his dog and the soft smile Yahaba saves for his little sister. The way that their eyes keep meeting unconsciously more and more as the year races forward. How aware of Yahaba’s presence he’s become, in tune to his motions both on and off the court _ – A collection of points blended one into the other, seemingly unconnected until viewed in full.

There _ is _ that moment of realization he predicted, but it’s not earth shattering or breathtaking. 

His moment of clarity is sparked not by some bold pop of affection or a high emotion event. Instead love finds him during a quiet moment as fall shifts to winter. He, Watari, and Yahaba are taking their lunch in the courtyard still because Yahaba’s too pigheaded to admit it’s freezing outside. Watari has warned Yahaba every lunch this past week that one of them’s going to catch a cold this way, but doesn’t push the issue. Watari never disagrees with Yahaba outright, only suggests and makes pointed comments and uses that special rueful tone when he’s inevitably proven right. The one that never fails to make his target feel like a child caught misbehaving. However it makes Watari generally useless when it comes to standing up to Yahaba’s bullshit. The only person who actively confronts Yahaba about anything is him, and he’s been trying to avoid potential fights.

The tree they sit under is completely bare of leaves, but at least the surrounding buildings keep the chilling breeze from sweeping through. Kyoutani finds himself distracted by the weak light and the way it shades Yahaba’s hair to an almost silver hue. If he hadn’t already been focused on Yahaba he would've missed his sniffles, the occasional clearing of his throat. Kyoutani remembers Yahaba had been coughing during morning practice too. 

He stands up, and glares down at Yahaba. His movement draws both his teammates attention.

“We’re going inside,” he says.

“What?” Yahaba asks, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

He should’ve worded his original statement better, tried for more tact and less blunt honesty. He knows Yahaba responds to perceived demands like a bull to a red flag. He tries to backtrack a little, give some facts to back up his claim. “You’re sick dumbass. Sitting out here is only gonna make it worse.”

“Pffft, I’m not sick.” Kyoutani raises both brows– a quirk he refuses to believe he picked up from Watari. The unimpressive retort is further ruined when Yahaba punctuates his words with a sneeze. “ ‘M not,” Yahaba insists, chin thrust out, unendingly obstinate in his denial. It’s frustrating and endearing and he can’t decide if he wants to punch his stupid setter or kiss him– 

It’s not the first time he’s wanted to kiss Yahaba, not by any measure of the imagination. It’s putting words to feelings. It’s just a simple moment of ‘ _ oh, so that’s the name for this thing _ ’. It’s as simple as him looking at what’s always been there, only from a different angle. Still, it’s a struggle for him to comprehend the differing view from his new perspective when nothing has actually changed.

Why this moment? A headstrong, sick Yahaba glaring right back at him with slightly watery eyes, pink cheeked and runny nosed, in refusal of his fever. The idiot looks like a disaster but Kyoutani feels that loose swell of grudging affection that’s been plaguing him since he can’t even recall– 

And bam– Kyoutani’s a goner.

In hindsight it’s painfully obvious.

The panic sets in later that night –once he’s finished frog marching a sniffly, whiny, and crankier than usual Yahaba to the nurse, after he helps Watari run practice, and he’s home– staring blankly at his math text, unseeing. His brain is too busy blaring warning sirens and feeding him images of everything that could go wrong. He spends the first part of the night seriously considering just never saying a word. He could lock it away and slap the biggest, brightest hazard sign he can find on it. If he’s lucky the feelings will fade into an impression in the background. Even if these feelings never truly go away, it’s unlikely they’ll be attending the same college, so at worst he’ll have to slog through the remaining part of the year. Nothing has to change. He can do this, keep this separate from school and volleyball. He can make this work.

Finally in bed with the lights out, he finds himself restless. While tossing and turning he comes to a conclusion– He’s a complete idiot. 

It'll never work. He doesn’t have a poker face to hide behind. The only thing he could manufacturer to conceal this is his anger. He’d have to lash out until he could push Yahaba completely away and then, most difficult of all,  _ keep _ him at a distance. Because if there’s one thing that they’re both good at, it’s recovering from the fallout of their disagreements.

And what would pushing Yahaba away even achieve? There’s no guarantee it’ll make him un-fall in love. It would ruin not only their tentative friendship, but their on-court dynamic. It could ruin the team. He might not have cared about that last year, but now– well, he has a responsibility as the ace, a responsibility he doesn’t take lightly. 

So he’ll just have to tell Yahaba.

He turns over what what must be the thousands time that night. “ _ Much easier said than done _ ,” he grumbles to the wall. There’s no way he’s getting to sleep now, not with the imminent, looming confession he’s resigned himself to. He decides,  _ screw it, _ he’s not getting any sleep tonight anyways. Instead he climbs out of bed and makes his way over to his desk. Pushing away the half finished school work, he replaces it with a pad of lightly textured paper, a blender, a clay eraser. He debates if he wants to work with chalk or oil pastel.

He picks neither, and as dawn breaks he has four new charcoal sketches to meet the day. All of them flowers, all a reflection of the people in his life. His sister is a small clump of fuchsias, Watari a lotus, while a white lily depicts Oikawa and a strong, distinguished maple is Iwaizumi. He’d fallen asleep on the last, unfinished piece of the night, leaving his face smudged in charcoal dust. He’d finished the body of the image, but had only just started in on shading. A prickly cactus and it’s vivid bloom, now smeared by his impromptu nap.

Yahaba misses the next two days of class, which leave Kyoutani with way too much time to spend agonizing over where, when, and what he’s going to say to Yahaba. It gets to the point where even Kindaichi finds the courage to remark on Kyoutani’s unusual reticence. If Watari hadn’t kicked him in the ankle by way of unsubtle warning Kyoutani might’ve chewed the chronically anxious Kindaichi a new one. Instead, Kyoutani grumbled out some unremarkable lie that he was pretty sure no one bought.

After practice ends on the third day of waiting he gives up, he’s going to go insane at this rate. He asks (demands) that Watari let him drop off Yahaba’s schoolwork, even though Watari lives just three blocks over, and pretends not to notice the suspicious eye Watari gives him. 

There’s no way Watari knows. He can’t be that transparent.

… right?

He’s studied at Yahaba’s place a few times now, so finding it isn’t hard, only a little out of the way of Kyoutani’s own place. He knocks on the door, shifts uncomfortably as seconds crawl by. He wonders if Yahaba’s mom is home. He wonders if he’s about to make a serious mistake. He wonders if it’s too late to take it back now. 

Yahaba opens the door, looking the better for a few days rest though his skin is still washed out and his cheeks just a bit too rosy, hair a rats nest, eyes a little fuzzy around the edges and still half asleep. Kyoutani shoves the folder of schoolwork towards Yahaba. 

“I have a crush on you,” He says.

Yahaba blinks at him and hesitantly takes the papers from his hands. “I… thanks? I think?” and he just looks so perplexed that Kyoutani wants to squeeze that stupid face between his hands. Maybe kiss him. Maybe shake him until an answer pops out. Kyoutani isn’t sure which yet. 

Yahaba rubs his eyes and squints at him, trying to find answers in the in-between spaces. “Am I dreaming? Is this a dream?” He asks. “I know I took a little more cold medication then strictly necessary but…” 

It’s not a real answer, and it echos with a sting of rejection. After how ordinary love turned out to be he would’ve thought losing it would follow suite, but it leaves Kyoutani feeling gutted. He looks at the ground, can’t bring himself to make eye contact, and almost expects to see himself painting Yahaba’s doorstep crimson with his heart’s blood. Maybe it’s internal and he’ll get halfway home before his heart bursts inside his chest.

“No, you’re not dreaming. You want me to punch you to test it?” Kyoutani growls out, trying to cover his hurt with standard aggression. “Whatever, feel free to blame this on a medication induced hallucination.” He turns away– to leave and to hide the shame that’s burning scarlet across his face and the tops of his ears– but doesn’t get more than two steps before Yahaba grabs a shoulder and hauls him back with surprising strength for someone with the flu. 

“Calm down,” Yahaba says with his usual brand of annoyance, the one he saves specifically for Kyoutani. “You caught me by surprise, okay? I didn’t exactly expect you to come right out and confess like that without warning. I figured there’d be a lot more tension and awkward flirting involved before you got with the program.” Yahaba rolls his eyes, but oddly it almost seems fond. Odder still, he sounds fond too. “Obviously I miscalculated. You don’t do anything else halfway, so why would you do this any different.”

For the past few nights Kyoutani’d spent hours agonizing over how Yahaba would react to his confession, but somehow he’d never considered the possibility of Yahaba reciprocating. “You… like me.” He says the words slowly, but the meaning behind them is lost on him. Yahaba likes him. I doesn’t make sense. “Not as a friend– a crush. You have a crush on me.” 

“Yes,” Yahaba huffs as he leans against the door frame, casual as can be. At least he sounds amused and not scornful. “It’s the only thing that explains why I find the weird face you’re making right now cute. That and possibly one too many volleyballs to the head. Also, I’d totally be kissing you right now if I wasn’t sick, but it’s feeling like you’re going to need some time to process, so we’ll take a raincheck on that one.”

“Shut up, I’m not making a face,” he replies, but it’s more of a reflex then anything, because it feels like somethings thrown reality out of perspective and anything more is beyond him.

How is Yahaba so calm about this? Yahaba likes him and Kyoutani doesn’t have the first clue for what to do here. This is all too new and not at all like anything he would’ve guessed at and how is this even his life now?

It slowly dawns on him– “You knew,” Kyoutani accuses, and he can feel himself turning red in the face. The ugly, splotchy way he blushes. “You knew I lo–” he backtracks furiously, “–liked you, didn’t you!” He’s yelling by the end, embarrassed and angry and lashing out. 

Normally now’s when the regret starts kicking in, but Yahaba doesn’t appear put out at all. In fact, Yahaba looks so smug Kyoutani wants to be pissed off all over again but dammit, that soft swell of feeling glides over his anger in broad strokes. 

Having put a name to it, he sees how his love for Yahaba rises to the surface to mix with his usual sense of irritation, wariness, respect, and his own cranky personality until one’s inseparable from the other. If there’s no contrast how could you even see it, without the shadowing to accent the highlights. Something simple on the surface, but complicated in practice.

“Oh Kyoutani-kun,” Yahaba replies with false sincerity. “You’re the only one who didn’t know.” Yahaba pauses, lets his shallow pretense fall away, and continues. “I just figured you should have the time to figure it out on your own.”

It’s all just so Yahaba. Polite words on the surface, that special blend of petty condescension and underhandedness underneath; the one that doesn’t fully eclipse how considerate Yahaba is, his intuitive awareness of the people around him and the way he naturally shifts to accommodate anyone. Allows him to mesh and work alongside people like Kyoutani, who’s respect is given sparingly.

“How is it possible for a person to be so annoying and thoughtful at the same time?” Kyoutani mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to pass it off as grumpy. It’s pretty pointless. The little half smile at the corner of Yahaba’s mouth tells him as much, so do those soft brown eyes and the fondness Kyoutani finally recognizes in them. 

They’re black and white. Yin and yang. A masterpiece, but in the velvety grayscale of a charcoal painting instead of the rich spectrum of color he’d thought love would be. It’s disarming and captivating and flawed, but no less beautiful for it.

He finds it hard to complain about any imperfections, not when it means he gets to hold Yahaba’s hand as they walk to his place to study or he can tease his fingers in the hair at the nape of Yahaba’s neck to draw out a shiver. Not when Yahaba teases him mercilessly until he’s red in the face, then kiss him until he's red for an entirely different reason. Especially not when, a few months later, he finally works up the courage to tell Yahaba he loves him over their English homework and Yahaba says it right back – _ love you too _ – without batting an eyelash or looking up from his work. Like it was obvious, like Yahaba never questioned it, like it was an irrefutable constant. 

He kicks Yahaba under the table and complains about how unromantic his boyfriend is. 

**Author's Note:**

> (Valentine Extra)
> 
> Yahaba gets revenge by embarrassing the hell out of him the next day when he brings a dozen roses to practice, delivering them in front of the entire team, who hoot and holler and make inappropriate suggestions on how Kyoutani can thank his idiot boyfriend. Yahaba just grins at him over the obnoxious red flowers like the asshole he is –ever the show-off, always surprising him. Kyoutani wonders for the nth time how he can find Yahaba unrelentingly obnoxious and endearingly sweet at the same time. For the nth time he decides it doesn’t matter, too busy half smothering, half kissing Yahaba while the entire team laughs and the flowers lay forgotten on the floor.


End file.
